


a garden for heroes

by unicyclehippo



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 19:37:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21104888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicyclehippo/pseuds/unicyclehippo
Summary: Caduceus knows how to bury the dead. He does it very well.





	a garden for heroes

There is a garden far to the north of the Empire that is ringed by three stone-and-iron-and-thorn walls. The gateways stand open, always, and from deep within the garden there is the ever present bloom of flowers. It is hot here. It has been snowing for weeks everywhere else but the garden air is humid and sweat immediately begins to prickle beneath cloth, beneath armour. Buzzing insects drone on about insect business, the wind talks through the leaves and the grass. When the trees of the garden give way, the complex opens into hillocks and divots where a swamp has crept in and claimed its place. Ponds of murky water skinned over by immense lily-pads. Croaking frogs hold parliament at their edges.

Though it takes a while for a humanoid voice to come through, there is one here.

He is seated on a log beside a rather complex looking set-up—a crackling fire beneath it and boasting a squat little teapot above. A curtain of surprisingly vibrant pink hair falls to one side of his head, laced back by a simple braid embedded with flowers. The braid must have been done for him for the firbolg is very old; his eyes, when he blinks them curiously toward the singing birds above, are clouded over with age and his fingers shake as he reaches for the pot to pour another cup.

His name is Caduceus Clay and he tells this easily to the young adventurer who steps into the garden. They have done their research, what little they could, and they know who is buried here.

‘Their graves,’ he repeats when the adventurer asks to see them. ‘You want to see them?’

‘Yes, please.’

He scratches at the long goatee that curls down from his chin. ‘For a monk of the Cobalt Soul, I suppose I could do that.’ His laughter, like his speaking voice, is rich and warm and soothing. Pours out of him when the monk blinks their surprise. ‘You did a very good job hiding it. Never was sure why you all like to do that, but you do.’ He shrugs. Heaves up onto his feet. Towering at a full seven feet, perhaps taller, there is a moment when he is silhouetted by the cloud-dimmed sun and shadows fall across an angular face and he is not jovial or warm but imposing indeed. And then the moment passes and he gestures toward the pot steeping above his contraption. ‘Tea? This is from the—‘ Nostrils flare in his broad nose. ‘Eresovon family.’

‘Ah. Thank you, yes.’

The grin he gives them is not comforting, but it is amused. ‘Dead people tea,’ he says, and laughs in a quiet way that sounds like he's leaving room for another to laugh as well.

The monk shivers, very aware that for a moment they were surrounded. Not by ghosts, not exactly. 

Caduceus Clay smiles, then pulls his attention back to the monk. 'An old joke. Well, alright then, follow me.’

//

‘You’ve read all about them, I suppose.’ He takes the lead through the garden and walks with the aid of a staff. Not the Staff of Withering from the stories, not this simple gnarled stick, scorched at its top, carelessly jabbed into any old puddle and slop of mud. Surely not. 

The monk—a half-elf who introduces themself as Archivist Kosh—nods eagerly. ‘Yessir! Everything that is available from the Archives regarding their travels after the Alliance was struck and as much as I could gather from before their emergence as heroes. There is very little indeed from before the slaying of the Laughing Hand,’

‘Ah, yeah. Him. He was not very nice,’ Caduceus nods. 

Kosh pales, seeming to remember that this man indeed was a part of this same group they have studied for so long. ‘Right. No. Servant of the Crawling King. Not nice. I shall…make a note, shall I?’

‘Seemed pretty obvious to me but sure, yeah.’

Caduceus doesn’t lead them far before they reach a well. He stands hunched beside it and doesn’t speak. Kosh blinks. Searches for a sign of what they are doing here. They shift their weight from their heels to the balls of their toes, bounce a few times to bleed off the restless energy.

‘This is where we put Fjord. He made it himself.’ Caduceus steps around, waving Kosh to follow. On the north-facing side of the well, where a verdant moss is trying to climb up toward the water, sheltered by the shade thrown by the well, there is a sword embedded into the stone.

Embedded isn’t the right word. The stone has _grown_ around it—creeping vines of granite holding the sword to the side of the well.

Kosh reaches out instinctively before pulling their hand back, just shy of touching it.

‘Go ahead,’ the gardener rumbles. ‘Everyone always wants to tug on it.’ He waits a moment, head tilted to the side as though listening for something, and then laughs quietly.

Kosh wonders if they should write in their report that the gardener has a rather juvenile sense of humour. It is something they can decide on later; first, they want to try and pull the sword from the stone, as it were.

The handle is terribly cold, at first, enough to make them want to snatch their hand away. They don’t. Instead, they grip it tighter and lift and _pull_ and to their great surprise, the sword grates against stone for a moment before sticking again.

‘Hmm,’ the gardener says. ‘Interesting.’

‘Is it?’

‘Possibly. Not sure.’

‘Oh.’

//

Fjord spent many years building wells, Caduceus tells them as they wander the garden. Partly because of his connection to water, definitely, but there was something comforting to building that he always enjoyed. Maybe the fact that he would have people join him and learn how to do it themselves, how to make the repairs, how to drop a new well if this one ran dry. He liked people. Was always good at taking a piece of them with him, in a voice or a gesture or a story. Rather poetic, then, that so many people got to keep something of him.

Miss Jester Lavorre, the Sapphire, Kosh has written in their notes. Not far from Fjord, there is a peculiar archway that always seems to be facing Kosh no matter where they walk. The archway is overrun by tiny blue flowers that smell sugar-sweet, and the path leading to and from it—a short path, only a few feet long—is a shifting, shining mosaic of blue and green, pink and gold. She had made it herself. Started the day fjord passed. Caduceus stares down at the path for a long, long time. Breaks out of his quiet only when Kosh’s curiousity lures them closer to the arch.

‘I don’t know where that will take you,’ he warns. ‘Maybe to the other side.’

‘Of…life?’

‘Of the arch.’

‘Oh.’

‘Or death. Or the fey. Or the centre of a volcano.’ He shrugs. ‘Who knows? Nott is over here. Veth.’

Veth Brenatto is buried beneath wildflowers. Hers is a simple grave, with a marker not unlike many Kosh has walked past before. The flowers are simple too, common as weeds. Caduceus offers no explanation, simply pats the headstone and moves along.

Not far from her grave is another patch of flowers grown over a simple grave. Vibrant orange blooms and—catnip? Kosh stares in confusion and a faint sense of indignation wells up in their chest as they read the name etched without design or flair into the headstone. _Caleb Widogast_. and, below it, _Bren Aldric Ermendrud_.

‘He—the Archmage of the Mederi Council—He should have a _mausoleum_! A place of _connection_! Something that shows the esteem the Empire—the _world_—has for him! The great strides in healing, in reconnection, that he made for the entirety of Wynandir! This is not _fit_ for the Archeart’s Chosen!’

‘Not fit?’ Again, Kosh sees the shadows grow, though the sun is shining brightly. The birdsong seems to fade as Kosh becomes aware of the thudding pulse in their ears. ‘The grave is not for you. The grave is for the dead and for those who loved them. What better grave is there for him than to be buried beside the person he loved best? To be a simple man, buried simply, and to grow beautiful flowers? _Come_,’ he commands, tone brooking no disagreement, and his hand settles on Kosh’s shoulder. It is impossible to disobey. Kosh walks from the grave.

If they are worried for a moment that Caduceus will send them away, they need not be for only a moment passes and, like the passage of a breeze that dips and turns where it wishes, the cold anger of the firbolg shifts and is gone.

‘Yasha is over there,’ he says, and points. Near to the wall of the garden, there is a series of trees. At first, Kosh cannot determine which of them the gardener is pointing toward, and then they see it. ‘Part of her wanted to be buried with her wife, so she was. Part of her wanted to be buried with us, so she was.’ He leads the monk up to a tree with dark red wood and dripping with red leaves.

‘A vermaloc tree. I didn’t think they grew—‘ Kosh stops themself, flushing.

‘Almost anything planted in her garden will grow,’ Caduceus tells them, ignoring their embarrassment. ‘Some take a little easier. It was worth tending to,’ he says much more quietly. Pats the red bark again.

He turns then, those clouded eyes focusing nonetheless with intent upon the monk. He says nothing.

Kosh feels their stomach twist. That restless energy, mostly assuaged by their walk, returns. They bounce up onto their toes, unable to hide it.

A smile breaks across the gardener’s face. ‘I thought so. Saved the best for last.’

‘They’re all vitally important to our research,’ Kosh recites.

Caduceus nods. ‘And to you?’

They can feel their ears twitch. ‘She’s a _hero.' _The words burst out of them. 'She’s a legend! She’s—all my life, I read about her and then when I joined the Archive I tried to find out more but there’s even _less_ in the Archives! Did she burn all the information about herself? Was she just that good at going unnoticed? Is it true that she could run so fast you couldn’t see her move, she was just _there_?’

That smile grows.

Caduceus shrugs noncommital to Kosh's questions, but he nods his head toward the next tree. ‘That’s hers.’

It’s a strange tree. Like and unlike many Kosh has seen before. The bark shifts from smooth to rough in patches and pathways. The colours are dappled in browns, all healthy, and there is a peculiar energy that surrounds it that Kosh can’t quite identify other than the urge to climb it, an urge they’re quite familiar with, is almost impossible to ignore.

'Does she have a headstone?’

‘Do you think she does?’ Caduceus asks.

Kosh hesitates. Then, they nod. ‘She could’ve gotten rid of every trace of herself but she didn’t. It was like a - a scavenger hunt to find the information.’

‘Then I suppose if she does have one, you would have to look for it.’

It takes some days of talking with Caduceus and walking the garden themself before Kosh notices the branches of the oak and the vermaloc have twined together, high above. A blue ribbon tied where the two meet.

* * *

Caduceus doesn’t know what awaits him when he dies. The Mother, certainly. To join her in her garden and continue his work? To guide others in their journeys as one of Hers? Or to sleep, and never to dream, as his body becomes one with the loamy earth, to feed the beetles and bugs and worms that shall in turn feed the birds and the roaming chittering foxes and all manner of creatures that walk her lands?

Caduceus sips his tea. 

It is hot—just brewed, in fact, save a few moments he gave it to sit and breathe in the cool night air—and it will be the last tea he drinks. The warmth of day is leeching from the stone bench and as the cold of night settles around him, sinks into his bones, it is sunset.

‘Kinda poetic, isn’t it?’ he says in his low rumble. The nameless—or intensely private, he still isn’t sure—trees stand tall and silent, many of them barren of the leaves that would usually whisper and rustle and sigh in the chilled breeze. A frog croaks. A bird wheels high overhead. ‘Beautiful.’

He is to be buried in a small lot not far from Fjord. His niece has made a hive to set near him, an idea he is very fond of.

He drinks his tea, listens to the world around him, and steps calmly into his death.

It is dark where he goes. True darkness, for he has no eyes with which to see. And then that darkness is filled in with purples and greens and he is sitting, cradled in the roots of an enormous tree. The pinwheeling sky spins overhead much faster than it ever did in life and just when he thinks he’s getting dizzy it stops and the twin moons are close and bright. As he watches, they blink down at him.

_Hello, my clay_.

‘Hello,’ Caduceus says to the Mother, and a rare and brilliant smile dawns across his face. ‘Do you have more work for me, then?’

_Not exactly_.

‘That’s a pity. I always like to be useful.’

_I know. And I have appreciated it for all these long years. But all things come to an end, even my own creations. Especially my own creations. It is time to rest._

‘Rest.’ Caduceus rubs at his chin, nods. ‘Alright.’

_You are free to walk my forests and eat of my fruit for all of your days. To explore and learn and rest, as you desire. and_, a curtain of leaves Caduceus hadn’t noticed—entranced as he is by the brightness of her eyes and the clear pride that shines in them—parts. _Y__ou have been sorely missed, my clay._

‘Hmm?’ Caduceus turns his attention to the shadows, to the waters beyond. The quiet murmur of the water is unfamiliar and it takes a moment for Caduceus to recognise voices—several, at least, and maybe many more—that make up the dark waters there. voices speaking and praying and singing overlapping one another until all it is is noise. It swells and crashes like waves against the shore, but her words don’t spark recognition in Caduceus’s mind until he sees them.

‘Took you long enough,’ a crystal clear voice chides, warm with humour and love. ‘You’ve been doing good, I hope.’

‘Where I can. A little bad when it is needed,’ Caduceus nods, and he takes the hand Fjord offers him. ‘Death is natural, after all.’

‘Caduceus with the metal as fuck lines, as always. I knew Team Dead was missing something,’ a voice says from down around his knees. ‘It was that mellow voice saying the most hardcore shit.’

‘Hello, Nott. Or it is Veth, here?’

The woman—her image bleeding and shifting without pause between her forms—shrugs. ‘I am me.’

‘That you are.’

‘I’ve been calling her Brenatto,’ comes the familiar drawl from high above them. Beau hangs from a large tree, coat dangling below her head in an undignified manner that makes Caduceus’s smile grow. ‘Fjord, a little—fuck—a little help? There’s, like, a vine or something around my legs.’

‘Just fall. What, you think you're gonna die twice or something stupid like that?’

‘Maybe I will! Maybe I _will_ be the first person to die twice, Brenatto, what do you think about that?’

‘First?’ Nott blows a disgusted noise toward the woman. ‘Caduceus is dead again now, he’s died twice. Caleb died _three_ times.’

‘Yeah but he was always squishy.’

‘That’s true,’ Nott agrees with great fondness. ‘Still, so there, you’re not the first to die twice!’

‘I meant like re-killed while I was already dead,’

‘That’s _not_ what you said,’

‘It’s what I meant!’

‘Those are two totally different things!’

‘Guys! Caduceus _just_ died. A little respect? And can you please just come down from there? I’m getting a headache looking at you, which is real hard since I technically don’t even have a head.’

‘Fine. Sorry, Fjord. Sorry, Cad. Hey, good to see you again, man. Welcome to being dead.’ Beau seems to twist and simply float down, remembering now that she is in fact a spirit. Despite this, the hug she gives him is firm and feels, to his old heart, entirely real.

‘It’s very nice to see you all,’ Caduceus whispers, eyes misting. He looks past the bickering women to Fjord. ‘The others?’

‘We’re he-ere!’ A cheerful voice announces and another hug—real, real, _real_—impacts, arms flinging around his waist and lifting him clear off his feet. ‘Oh my gosh, _C__aduceus_, I can’t believe you’re finally dead! It took you for-_ever! _Did anyone have bets on this year? Decade?’

‘I did.’

‘Ja but you cheat, Beauregard,’ Caleb chides. ‘Insider knowledge.’

‘So the Mistress of Knowledge can _theoretically_ know everything that is, was, and ever will be. It doesn’t mean that _I _know that shit.’

‘And yet you have won every one of our bets. What does that mean, hmm?’

‘That I’m smarter than you?’

Caleb’s laugh has an honest tinge of arrogance, mostly amusement, and Caduceus feels a faint lingering worry, a heaviness in his heart, begin to crumble like rock into sand and simply empty away. The confidence had returned to Caleb in piecemeal parts over the long years, but this ease is good to see. How much of it is only his _desire_ for this to be real, seeing what he wishes to see, wishing for this to be the Caleb beyond the door of death, Caduceus doesn’t know. But he is content to hope.

‘Caduceus. What a surprise to find you in the Mother’s garden,’ Caleb says with a scraped tick of a smile that writes years of laughter into the corners of his eyes.

‘Really? I was always pretty sure this is where I’d end up. Can’t imagine she would let me go anywhere else.’

‘Ah, no, I am teasing you, my oldest friend.’

Caduceus blinks. then laughs. ‘I guess I am your oldest friend.’

‘How old are you?’ Fjord asks.

‘Oh, fairly.’

‘Am I the only one just now remembering that Cad literally never told us how old he was? It was all _old enough_ and _I __have seen many summers come and go _but never, like, a number. How old are you?’ Beau demands, still grinning, jutting her chin all stubborn and interrogative as ever. The wrinkled skin around her eyes, the steel grey of her hair, none detract from the keen edge in those blue eyes.

Caduceus wraps an arm around Jester’s shoulders, places his other hand on Beau’s shoulder. Joy bubbles up in him like a fresh-water spring, the joy of coming home, of being greeted with open arms and fierce adoration at the door, the very first step.

‘I have no idea,’ he admits. He pats Beau’s shoulder.

'You can find that out, can't you?' Nott asks.

'Can I break into the All-Knowing Lady's extremely well hidden and fortified library for the sole purpose of finding the record of Cad's mortal existence so we know how old he was?' Beau asks their friend, brows raised. It looks as though she's about to tell Nott off, and then that wicked grin splits her face again. 'What am I, a baby? For _sure _I can do that.'

Caduceus ignores their scheming. Scans their group for another familiar face. ‘Where is she?’ For a moment, the joy turns sour and cold. Fear. But Beau doesn’t flinch and no one seems to share his upset. If anything, their joy grows brighter and deeper.

‘She’ll be along. She’s working,’ Beau says, rolls her eyes. ‘But she’ll come home soon.’

The world seems to swirl and shift around him, though it doesn’t feel like the ground moves at all. It occurs to him that there may be no ground, nothing beneath his feet at all, but he is here and he can touch it and what it all means is beyond him and Caduceus is rather fine with that. Beau, no doubt, had questions. Caduceus is content.

Wherever they have arrived, the air is sweet with the smell of flowers. The sky is clear, save for a few stray clouds that drift like cotton puffs across the blue. A garden is laid out ahead of him, rife with weeds and choked up with vines and all manner of misbehaving plants, and Caduceus smiles. It must be put right. How fortunate he is here to do it.

**Author's Note:**

> hi im unicyclehippo on tumblr as well feel free to say hi or sling me a prompt if u want


End file.
